Breaking the Surface
by Photogirl1890
Summary: After the events leading up to, and depicted in, "Extreme Risk", B'Elanna and Tom have to reconcile. And, even in the 24th century, depression isn't cured in a day.
1. Hindsight

Summary: After the events leading up to, and depicted in, "Extreme Risk", B'Elanna and Tom have to reconcile. And, even in the 24th century, depression isn't cured in a day.

Disclaimer: Star Trek belongs to Paramount/CBS. No copyright infringement is intended.

A/N: Rated T for mature themes (including references to depression and self-harm) and strong language. This story is set in the aftermath of 5x03 "Extreme Risk". There are a couple of allusions to events in my previous stories "Alive" and "Diversions", although reading those is definitely not essential.

A massive thank you goes to **Delwin**, whose help went above and beyond beta-reading this. Any remaining "crimes against punctuation" are entirely my own.

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**Breaking the Surface**

By Photogirl1890

**Chapter One - Hindsight**

Tom didn't know which was worse - the fact that B'Elanna hadn't told him what she was going through, or the fact that he hadn't realised. He'd known _something_ was wrong from the way she'd been behaving and the distance she'd put between them, but he hadn't considered that she might be _ill_. The recent passage through The Void had made everyone cranky. Neelix had suffered a panic attack. Captain Janeway had, for a few weeks, become a virtual recluse. But _Voyager_ had been back in normal space for a few weeks now, and Neelix and the Captain seemed back to their usual selves. B'Elanna was a different case entirely, and Tom couldn't get his head around it. The secrets. The lies. The sheer recklessness.

Sitting at the table in his quarters, he keyed on his LCARS terminal. B'Elanna was attending a meeting with the Captain and the Doctor, and she was supposed to come by when she was free. They hadn't had a real opportunity to talk alone since getting back from the _Delta Flyer_'s maiden voyage. He wasn't sure what he was going to say to her when they did. Getting angry with her wouldn't help, but he couldn't help but feel a sense of betrayal.

Chakotay had given Tom and the Captain a brief overview of what he'd found in B'Elanna's personal holodeck files, as well as a summary of the confrontation he'd had with her earlier that day. Tom wasn't certain what to make of the first officer's methods for getting B'Elanna to admit that she had a problem, but he'd conceded that Chakotay had been the right person to do it. Chakotay had been able to take the discovery of B'Elanna's reckless behaviour in his stride. Tom was too close, too stunned to have been able to get through to her. And, whilst he'd felt a little redundant, he knew that, in the situation at hand, Chakotay could command authority and respect, whereas he himself would have been dismissed without obtaining the necessary answers.

In a snatched conversation with B'Elanna after delivering the mission report, Tom had established that the Doc had her set up with a cocktail of antidepressants to stabilise her serotonin and norepinephrine levels. The first dose was already taking effect. _Voyager_, of course, had no ship's counsellor, so psychotherapy wasn't an option. The Doctor did keep proposing that additional subroutines be added to his program, but so far that hadn't happened. And that was probably a good thing. Getting B'Elanna to sit and talk through her emotional problems with the EMH might involve restraints and a force field. Tom permitted himself a moment of dark humour as he envisioned a group therapy session on _Voyager_ attended by B'Elanna, Billy Telfer – the hypochondriac, Baxter – the exercise addict, and Dalby with his anger management issues. _Voyager _had her fair share of crewmen that could use some psychiatric help. Considering the crew's isolation and the shit that came down on them on a weekly basis, it was remarkable that more people weren't suffering from some form of mental illness.

Or maybe they were and no one had noticed.

The letters from the Alpha Quadrant had been a mixed blessing. For every crewman who'd received good news, it seemed another had been notified of a bereavement, or of a spouse or partner that had moved on. Sometimes, ignorance was indeed bliss. But not always. And not in the case of his own ignorance as to exactly what was going on with B'Elanna.

Tom accessed the Starfleet medical database and loaded the entry for clinical depression in humans. Having completed medical assistant training, he already had a grounding in basic psychiatry, but he was far from an expert. The list of possible symptoms in the data file was extensive. Psychological symptoms were mentioned first. He worked down the list from top to bottom.

_Sadness. _B'Elanna had never said she felt sad. According to Chakotay, she hadn't been feeling anything at all. Tom hadn't seen her cry. But then, when had he last heard her laugh, or seen her genuinely smile? He scratched his forehead and read on. _Guilt. _How could he know if she were feeling guilty? As astute as he considered himself to be - correction, _had_ considered himself to be - he wasn't Betazoid. What did guilt look like?

_Anger and irritability. _Huh. He'd have been more worried if she'd suddenly stopped displaying either of those. Anger, or at least irritability, was her default setting. But now that he thought about it . . . Hell, had she been less angry than usual, lately? He keyed in a search for clinical depression in Klingons. There was no entry. Of course there wasn't. Klingons didn't get depressed . . . Back to human signs and symptoms then.

_Thoughts of self-harm or suicide. _He coughed away the lump in his throat. She'd covered her tracks well. Her holodeck activities hadn't been attention-seeking. Quite the opposite.

The list went on. Flicking to the next header for _Physical Symptoms _he read _Loss of appetite_. Had she been eating properly? They ate so many meals on the fly that it was hard to say, and, with Neelix's cooking, sometimes avoiding the galley offerings was the healthiest course of action. But, she had lost a little weight in the past few months, now that he thought back. Nothing drastic, but she'd got a little slimmer.

_Insomnia. _They hadn't slept together in weeks, in the literal sense or otherwise. Before that, he hadn't noticed her up in the night, but then he'd have been asleep, wouldn't he?

The next section caught his attention. _Loss of interest in sex. _He'd put it down to familiarity; their relationship wasn't new any more. They'd made up for three years of virtual celibacy in a few torrid months and then it was out of their systems. They'd settled into a routine. A couple of nights together, a couple of nights apart. His place, then hers. Contrary to shipboard gossip, they no longer went at it like tribbles. His own reputation on that front had been somewhat exaggerated, not that he'd made any effort to dispel the rumours. And B'Elanna was only _half_-Klingon. Though just before the incident with the "USS _Dauntless_", there had been that resurgence in her attentions when she'd not been able to get enough of him. He'd struggled to keep up with her then, in fact. Had that been an early symptom of her illness? Had she been using sex as a distraction before she'd moved on to darker, destructive things? And there'd been that rather abrupt change in her repertoire. When had that been? A few weeks before their last night together. She'd become less demanding of him and more giving in certain departments. Far less energetic, more restrained . . .

The thought that, under the surface, she'd harboured partially-healed fractures, invisible bruises and poorly-treated sprains and strains, sent a chill through him. Had she been faking enjoyment just to get it over with? Or worse, could he have mistaken groans of pain for moans of pleasure? His stomach churned, and he was glad he'd not eaten properly since breakfast.

He scrolled down to the last section: _Social symptoms_.

_Poor performance at work_. In the last week or so, certainly. Prior to that, he'd not heard anyone raise concerns. But, then, B'Elanna was the _chief_ engineer. And who'd have been brave enough to speak up if she'd been doing things wrong? Certainly not Joe Carey. The former Maquis engineers idolised her; something drastic would've had to have occurred for them to report her. Vorik might have complained if he'd deemed it logical, but he hadn't. And Seven, well she'd have needed little reason to lodge any objection, so obviously she'd had no cause to. B'Elanna's work performance had been the last thing to suffer, it seemed.

Her abject indifference to the _Delta Flyer_ project had been downright upsetting. And, the fact that her major role - trying to solve the micro-fracture problem - had involved almost getting herself killed, made him feel even worse. She'd turned up late to a few senior staff briefings, but that wasn't unheard of. He was late himself, from time to time. No, the signs hadn't been obvious until very recently.

_Avoiding contact with friends. Relationship difficulties. _She hadn't been very enthusiastic about the New Year's Eve party that he and Neelix had organised and had spent the whole evening looking like she wanted to be somewhere else - the other holodeck, most likely, running a dangerous program with the safeties off. Tom uttered a profanity. Hindsight was a fine thing.

Glancing at the chrono, he saw it was past midnight. What was taking so long? It had been a busy day. Surely whatever the Captain had to say could wait until the morning? As he was considering calling B'Elanna over the comm, his door mechanism chimed.

"Come in," he called, simultaneously turning off the computer. The door slid open. B'Elanna waited in the entranceway. At some point since the debriefing she had dressed in full uniform, presumably to present a proper appearance to the Captain.

"Hi," she said, cautiously.

Tom got up and moved towards her, feeling his heart rate accelerate. "Hey."

She shuffled forward enough for the door to hiss shut, and clasped her hands in front of her, fingers twitching.

"I was just about to call you," Tom told her. "I was wondering where you'd gotten to. Did your meeting go OK?"

B'Elanna nodded. "It was fine. I dropped by the mess hall afterwards to get something to eat."

"Oh," Tom said, frowning. So, that was where she'd been. "I was waiting for you. I thought we could grab some supper together."

"Sorry . . ." She seemed genuinely apologetic. "I didn't think . . . but we could still spend some time together." Her tone was almost pleading, and Tom felt his irritation give way to the urge to console. Tentatively, he reached out his hands. Without hesitation, she took them in hers and let him draw her into an embrace.

"I'd really like that," he said softly, resting his chin on the top of her head. He breathed more easily as she relaxed in his arms, and they stood motionless for a while, until the persistent rumbling of Tom's stomach became a distraction. She eased away from him.

"Maybe you should replicate a sandwich," she suggested.

"Yeah. You want something?" It was only polite to ask.

She shook her head. "No, thanks." And then she grinned, a heartening sight. "I just ate a stack of banana pancakes," she explained. "And you know I actually enjoyed them." She lowered her gaze, a flicker of tension again on her features. "It's been a while since I could say that about anything, really. Anything that it's normal to enjoy . . ."

What should he say in response to that? Unable to formulate a verbal reply, he leaned forward clumsily and kissed her gently on the forehead.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered.

He swallowed hard. "Me too." They badly needed to talk, but the early hours of the morning were not going to be conducive to what would be an emotive and possibly fraught conversation. He brushed her cheek with the backs of his fingers and turned toward the replicator to order a bacon sandwich. One thing at a time. She followed him to the sofa.

"So, what did the Captain say?" Tom asked through a mouthful of bread.

"I'm on restricted duties for a week. She wanted me to take some time off, but the Doctor suggested that keeping active would be better for me than enforced rest. I have to check in with him twice a day." She sighed. "It's not so bad, I guess. I didn't get busted down to ensign, or anything."

Tom smiled. "That's good. We wouldn't want Harry to get any ideas about a promotion."

As glad as he was to see her sense of humour had reappeared, he was wary about expecting too much. Her recovery when the _Delta Flyer_ needed her expertise had been fast. Too fast. The mission had served a purpose; she'd needed something to focus on, a crisis to help her snap out of her funk. But she wasn't going to get back to normal in a day. Not even with the meds rapidly working at her synapses.

"My holodeck privileges are restored. I think the Captain wants me to know that she still trusts me," B'Elanna continued. She paused before adding softly, "but I think I've spent enough time in there for a while."

Tom studied her carefully. Was she prompting him to ask about her risky behaviour? Surely not at this late hour. But, if she was ready to open up, he didn't want to miss the opportunity. She yawned. No. Definitely not the time for a heart-to-heart.

"You've spent a lot of time in there on your own," he replied, careful to keep his tone neutral. "But we could spend some time in there together. The holodeck's supposed to be used for fun." Did that sound critical? No, she wasn't overreacting.

"Not Captain Proton. Or skiing," she sniped, her eyebrows raised. Much more like herself.

Skiing? Unlikely. "I was thinking Samoa. How about tomorrow night?" He finished the last bite of his sandwich as she considered.

"Just the two of us?" she asked, eyes narrowing.

Tom nodded. "I have a couple of hours booked in holodeck two at 1900. Harry and I were going to play golf, but I'd rather sit on the beach with you."

Was she going to turn him down? Would the Doctor approve of him taking her in there? Maybe she should avoid the holodeck altogether for the time being. Or maybe the sooner she got back in there under appropriate circumstances the better. Life on _Voyager_ without the escape and entertainment that the simulations provided would become intolerable, not to mention the fact that her engineering work sometimes required the use of the holodeck for research purposes.

She locked gazes with him. "OK," she said. "If Harry doesn't mind."

Then it was decided. "He won't. And . . . we can talk."

She lowered her gaze and bit her bottom lip. "Yeah."

Tom washed down the sandwich with a glass of orange juice. B'Elanna replicated a mug of camomile tea, a pungent blend that reminded him of the smell of wet grass. Apparently, the Doctor had recommended it to her as a sleep aid. Tom considered replicating a mug of it for himself. His mind reeled with questions and unsubstantiated conclusions, mixed in with remnants of exhilaration from the mission's success.

"I was wondering," B'Elanna said, staring into her drink. "I mean, it's OK if you don't want me to, or . . . but . . ."

Tom laid a hand on her arm. "What is it?" he coaxed.

"Could I stay here tonight? It's just that . . . I think I'd sleep better if I wasn't alone."

That was unexpected, but certainly not unwelcome. He smiled again and clasped her arm more tightly. "I think I would too."


	2. Baring the Soul

**Chapter Two – Baring the Soul**

Tom was still dozing when B'Elanna left him at 0700 to head back to her own quarters. She needed to get showered, changed and report to sickbay before her shift began, and she was determined not to be late today - determined to show that she was capable and responsible. As sympathetic as Janeway had been, the Captain couldn't ignore the fact that her chief engineer had been availing herself of the holodeck for personal use during duty hours and letting her colleagues think she was in there working. Then there was the unauthorised removal of emergency medical equipment from engineering, unauthorised site-to-site transports to get from the holodeck to her quarters, and, even worse, erasing said transport entries from the logs. All that on top of deactivating the safeties. The EMH had really got her off the hook in there, explaining the breaches of protocol and deceptions as symptoms, not insubordination.

Sharing Tom's bed again had felt a little awkward at first, though they'd both slept well. B'Elanna had stripped to her Starfleet-issue base layers and climbed under the covers wondering if she should have clarified that when she'd said sleep, that was exactly what she'd meant. As it turned out, there was no misunderstanding. Once the lights were out and they'd both done their fidgeting to find comfortable positions, she'd had a solid five and a half hours of blissful unconsciousness, waking at the respectable time of 0640.

It was a marked improvement. The previous day had been exhausting but even so, in recent times, no matter how tired she'd been going to bed, she'd slept only fitfully, waking in the early hours every morning, unrested. The early waking had made the days seem endless.

She spent the day running routine diagnostics - nothing too taxing, but enough to keep her occupied. As far as most of the crew were aware, the chief engineer's need for a couple of weeks of restricted duties had been a result of the "accident" she'd suffered during the structural integrity simulation. Carey had taken the assignment rota off her hands and she was only interrupted a couple of times when something came up that required her input. Neelix fussed over her at lunchtime. It was a little irritating, but she was touched by his concern. She recalled the time he'd offered to be a pressure valve – someone she could take out her anger on. If only she'd felt anger lately. The best she'd managed was irritability. Except for on the holodeck.

Chakotay dropped by engineering on some pretence, but she knew he was checking up on her. Whether it was off his own bat or at the Captain's insistence, she didn't ask. But, all in all, the day went well, until her shift ended, her 'date' with Tom approached and a sense of foreboding descended upon her.

She didn't want to talk about everything that had happened in the last few months: her behaviour, her _illness_. Having been forced to admit what she had to Chakotay and, under further scrutiny, to the Captain, she wanted to draw a line under it. The Doctor had her on medication. It would take a few more days to fully kick in, but then she'd be back to her charming old self. She was feeling more motivated already. More social. She'd even allowed herself a few moments to think about Li Paz and the others, and she'd felt sadness. It wasn't a pleasant sensation, but it beat the numb indifference that it replaced. It honoured their memory, somehow.

Maybe she could deal with talking about their deaths now. But, as for discussing her inappropriate coping mechanisms - the crazy behaviour - how was dredging that up going to help her? Because the more she took stock of what she'd been doing, the deeper her sense of growing shame. Embarrassment. Dishonour.

Regardless of her own feelings, she knew Tom deserved some sort of explanation. But what could she say? What would he want to hear?

How could she to explain to him that being beaten up in the holodeck, or plunging three hundred thousand feet to possible death, were the only things that had made her feel _anything_? That she'd stopped taking any pleasure in his company, not caring if she set eyes on him from one day to the next. That, on some days, the Borg could have taken over the ship, and she'd have stood in meek surrender and let them assimilate her – and maybe him too. Surely he wouldn't want to hear that? But it was the appalling truth.

Back in her quarters, she changed out of her uniform and into practical beach attire. She struggled through a bowl of replicated potato salad, finding it tasteless and unsatisfying. Pacing the floor, waiting for the time to creep around to 1900, she wished for a crisis. Nothing major, just something that required her attendance. She tried to sit and read but couldn't focus on the words. Maybe the medication was disagreeing with her, making her agitated. The Doctor had mentioned that there could be side effects. No, more likely she was just being a coward. Again.

She took in the scene that surrounded her: the potted plant Kes had given her several birthdays ago, desiccated and dying, the soil in which it decayed had reverted to brown powder; dirty, crumpled clothes, strewn across the floor; a PADD under the desk, with its face shattered and tiny shards of plastic glinting in the light. At least the xerophytic Salusan wildflower Harry had given her for Prixin still thrived. It was time for a major clean-up operation. The state of the room would definitely not have passed muster with her Academy instructors. She busied herself, throwing the offending clothing into the replicator for recycling and picking up the broken pieces of the PADD. And still, there was time to spare.

Tom was already waiting in the corridor outside the holodeck when she arrived a few minutes early. They couldn't gain access right away and passed the time with mundane chatter. The doors eventually snapped open, and Crewmen Jones and Fitzpatrick emerged, a little after their time should have been up. Evidently, they'd been playing in a recreation of some old Earth game called rugby, and the match had gone on longer than expected. Something to do with one of the teams repeatedly collapsing something called a scrum in an attempt to waste time. Jones tried to explain the rules, but, unlike Tom, B'Elanna really wasn't interested. Whilst, on the one hand, more time spent in the corridor meant less time for "the conversation", on the other hand, with every drawn out moment the tension within her built. Just as she was about to say something viciously condescending about her own time being wasted, Fitzpatrick wisely took his friend by the elbow and guided him to safety.

B'Elanna was content to stand back and let Tom call up the program. Some small part of her still regretted that no blood would be spilled tonight and she wondered if this was how a recovering alcoholic felt, going into a bar. The last time she'd visited this holodeck, it had been under duress. At least today she wasn't being dragged in. The sight that greeted her as the holodeck doors swooshed open was in complete contrast to the dank, dark cave system, ripe with the stench of death and echoing with the distant sounds of phaser fire that she had created for the holoprogram _Torres Zeta-1_.

Tom had set the Samoan beach program to simulate the comfortable light of evening. The real beach, upon which this imitation was based, lay on the western coast of Savai'i near the village of Falealupo. Tom knowledgably informed her it had once been known as the last village in the world to see the sunset on any given day, until the International Date Line was repositioned in the early 21st century. This was holotechnology at its best, and the main reason that holodecks were installed on starships in the first place: to provide the illusion of open skies and solid ground in the midst of deep space.

B'Elanna stopped to remove her beach shoes and savoured the feel of the warm sand as it scoured her soles. A gentle breeze stirred her hair, the air fresh with the smell of the sea. A couple of deckchairs stood ready for them on the sand, an uncorked bottle of wine and two glasses on a table in between. _Oh_.

"I hope that's synthehol," B'Elanna stated, more bluntly than she'd intended.

Tom blinked. "Huh?"

She pointed at the wine. "I'm not supposed to drink alcohol. The Doctor's not sure how it might react with the medication." The Doctor had been insistent. It was unfortunate. She could have used a stiff drink about now.

Tom's face fell. "Oh, crap. Sorry. I didn't think." He swiftly ordered the computer to replace the intoxicating beverage with an appropriate alternative. The bottle dematerialised, and another took its place. B'Elanna picked the nearest chair and sat down. Tom stepped around her, poured the wine, handed her a full glass and then took the other chair, sitting back and closing his eyes briefly before opening them again and sipping his drink.

"This is nice," B'Elanna said, referring to the high, wispy cirrus clouds, and deciding to make the effort to praise his choice of setting. If only they could just sit for the next two hours under the deep blue sky and watch the waves. Hell, she'd have taken an episode of Captain Proton over what she knew was coming. The whole series of episodes, in fact.

"Yeah," Tom agreed before taking an audible deep breath that, conversely, arrested her own breathing. He turned to face her. "Chakotay told me about the program you ran, the day after he got that letter saying that your friends were dead."

B'Elanna tensed further. No preamble then. "Uh-huh." Just how much had Chakotay told him? There was no point in covering old ground.

"Do you want to talk about it? What . . . why you came up with it?"

She bit back the sarcastic retort on her tongue, swigged a mouthful of wine pretending that it was the real thing, rued that the placebo effect didn't work that way, and obliged him. "I got their physical parameters from the Starfleet database. From the arrest warrants. I thought if I could see them lying there dead, it might sink in. I thought I could accept that they were gone. Say goodbye. Grieve." She shrugged. "But I didn't feel anything."

"They were good people, Li Paz and the others," Tom said, kindly, when it was clear she wasn't going to add anything further on the subject.

"They didn't like you," B'Elanna snapped before her brain could kick into gear. _Crap_. Tom flinched. Why had she said that? Not helpful.

"No, well . . ." he stuttered. "I guess they had good reasons not to."

"If they knew you now, I think they'd respect you," she added, hastily backtracking. "If _I_ could change my opinion of you, then anyone could."

He looked appeased by her attempt at a compliment, but then steered the conversation back to its original heading, expert pilot that he was. "So, when did you start running dangerous programs with the safeties off?"

She turned back to the ocean, soaking in the sound of the waves, trying unsuccessfully to steady her accelerating heartbeat. If she held the wine glass any tighter it was likely to shatter, so she set it down, before remembering that, with the safeties on, such an accident was impossible. She picked it up again.

"It was about four months ago, a couple of weeks before we found that Demon-class planet." She looked at him. He stared straight back at her, patiently waiting for her to elaborate. There was nothing for it, but to plough right on. She looked back at the water and inhaled sharply.

"I'd had a rough few days. You were working a shift in sickbay. I had some holodeck time booked, and I was going to go orbital skydiving. But when I got to the holodeck - I don't know why - I wanted to do something more aggressive. So, I ran the Klingon program we worked on together – the Day of Honour ceremony . . ." She stole a glance back over at Tom. A slight frown graced his brow. "Only I tweaked the program so it was just the _bat'leth _ritual." She omitted to mention the painsticks. If he only knew how close to the mark he'd been with that flippant comment in the mess hall that time . . . "It was too easy. So I turned off the safeties. I got such a rush knowing that the danger was real . . ."

Tom was now staring forwards, not at her. He had to be upset that she'd subverted the program they'd worked on together. Abused it. She really wasn't proud of that. It was a definite low point in the whole, sorry mess.

"I'm not sure you really want to hear this," B'Elanna cautioned him, hoping desperately that he'd agree.

"But I need to hear it," he answered quickly, turning back to her. "And you need to tell me." He faltered for a moment then added, "No more secrets."

His tone was gentle, but alarm bells rang at those last three words. To her over-sensitive ears, it still sounded like a threat. No more secrets or – what? It was over between them? Now that she actually cared again, felt something for him again, that wasn't an option she wanted to explore.

He reached over and took her free hand, his face grimly determined. "Whatever's been going on, I'd rather know the details than have my imagination fill in the blanks."

She gritted her teeth then forced her jaw to relax again, looking down as she did so at their joined hands.

"After my . . . experiment with the Klingon program, I tried a few others with the safeties off. I went rock climbing without the proper equipment. I went orbital skydiving. I had to try more and more dangerous scenarios to get the same feeling - to feel anything."

Tom's grip tightened. "And . . . the injuries?"

She shifted her gaze to her bare forearms, the site of many a bruise and laceration over the previous months, the skin now flawless and the bones underneath all healed.

"Some minor injuries from the rock climbing. I slipped a few times and-"

"They didn't sound minor," Tom accused before she could finish.

She snatched her hand back from beneath his and fought unsuccessfully to suppress a glare. "From the rock climbing, they were. Just bruises. The fractures and concussion were from a hand-to-hand combat simulation I programmed . . . against Cardassian soldiers." It had been a futile attempt at revenge, the soldiers programmed with personality subroutines based on the profiles of notorious Cardassian war criminals from the Federation-Cardassian war - by far her most unhinged attempt at escaping the chronic numbness. Seriously fucked up. Purged from the computer now, along with _Torres Zeta-1 _and the other programs she'd created explicitly for the extreme risks they'd provided her.

Tom's jaw had dropped. "You mean you wrote a holodeck program with the _specific_ intention of hurting yourself?" he asked shakily.

She shook her head emphatically and slammed her glass down on the table, the dregs sloshing up and over the sides. "No! I didn't just stand there and let them beat me. I fought back. I fought hard. If I hadn't, I'd be dead now, wouldn't I?" The last quip was unnecessary, but it had slipped out.

Tom's eyes narrowed. "Didn't you . . ." He turned away and gathered himself. "Didn't you stop for a moment and think about the consequences? Your holodeck time would have expired and some poor bastard would have gone in there and found your mutilated corpse." She could see he was trying desperately to retain control, but his voice was getting louder, his posture more upright and his hands clenched into fists, knuckle bones starkly prominent, just like her own. His voice cracked. "Didn't you think about that? Didn't you think about what that would have done to me?"

"No. I didn't," she snapped, on the verge of getting to her feet. "Because I didn't care. That's what I'm telling you. I didn't feel anything, except for when I was in danger. I didn't enjoy anything, except . . ." She shook her head in disbelief at what she was about to admit. It sounded crazy. It was crazy.

His piercing blue eyes scrutinised her - oppressed her. "Except what?" he asked, in a much calmer voice that belied his demeanour.

She felt her skin prickle and redden from a potent mixture of anger and shame. "I guess I enjoyed getting hurt." Her throat had gone dry. To hell with it. She croaked out the next admission. "I enjoyed seeing the bruises on my skin, the visible damage. But it didn't feel like I was doing it deliberately, because I wasn't trying to get myself killed."

No, there was a difference between trying to get yourself killed or injured, and simply not caring whether it happened. She hadn't wanted to die; to want would have implied motivation, and she'd simply not cared either way.

She dared to look at him again. In contrast to what she imagined was her flushed appearance, Tom had gone pale. He ran a hand over his face – a face that showed a trinity of disappointment, confusion and concern. An expression she wouldn't have imagined possible. An expression that hurt her more than all the burns, the bruises, the lacerations and the fractures combined.

Suddenly, the waves were too loud, the sky too bright, the horizon too distant. The air that had felt clean and refreshing at first was now suffocating, as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of it leaving only inert, unsustaining gases. She had to get out. She stood up, the deckchair nearly toppling over as her foot got caught around one of the legs. "This was a bad idea."

Disentangling herself, she turned and stomped away from him - as much as she could stomp when the ground gave way beneath her every footfall. But as she was about to call for the holodeck arch, she realised she'd left her shoes behind. Cursing inwardly, she stopped, took a deep breath and turned back.

Tom hadn't moved from the chair, but his face now conveyed merely a simple sadness. He was making no attempt to dissuade her from leaving, and she wasn't sure whether that should make her relieved or terrified.

She bent down to retrieve her shoes, the change in posture exacerbating the headache that had been in the background all evening, probably stemming from the tension creeping up her neck from her taut shoulders, though possibly a reaction to the meds. Headache had been top of the list of side effects the Doctor had warned her about. She pressed her thumb into her right temple and rolled it around a few times for temporary relief, whilst deciding what the hell she was going to do next. To flee, or to fight through the panic and stay – two miserable options.

"Headache?" Tom asked, eyes narrowed as he assessed her in medic mode.

"Yeah."

With a single nod he said, "You should check in with the Doc," and he pulled himself to his feet, calling, "Computer, end program."

B'Elanna opened her mouth to protest, before realising this was her genuine excuse to escape. Yet another visit to sickbay, but a chance to pause and re-group. As the close grey walls of the holodeck replaced the wide tropical vista, Tom was before her in two strides. Cold, hard floor replaced sand, and she hastened in covering her feet.

"Come on. I'll walk you," Tom said, moving to grasp her arm.

She recoiled, an ingrained reaction that would now have to be unlearned. A reaction no longer necessary, now that all her physical wounds were healed. But still, she consciously raised a hand to ward him off. "I know the way."

And that awful look was on his face once more, amplifying the thundering of her pulse in her ears. "I'm sorry," she said, quickly, dropping her hand to her side and positioning herself between Tom and the doors. "Look, maybe . . . maybe I just need time to get some of these things clear in my own head before I can talk about them with you."

He peered down, his features reverting back into impassivity, waiting for more from her. She racked her brain to think of an out that would satisfy them both. The seconds seemed to stretch into minutes before she came up with a plan. The idea was a gamble, but at this point, what did she have to lose?

"Don't you have a day off on Thursday?"

He nodded, stiffly, tight-lipped.

"Me too," she informed him, her gaze oscillating between his face and the wall behind his head. "We could work together on the _Flyer_."

His eyes widened.

"Didn't you say you wanted to overhaul the power distribution grid?" she queried.

"If Seven and Vorik can solve the micro-fracture problems by the end of tomorrow," he pointed out in a dubious tone, which B'Elanna suspected was aimed more at her suggestion than to convey a lack of confidence in the Borg and the Vulcan.

"Well, they will, won't they?" It was a statement more than a question, delivered with an insolence that was abrasive, even by her standards. _Oh crap_. Her guts churned.

Tom raised an eyebrow and let out an exasperated sigh.

"Sorry," she repeated, palms raised as she waited in trepidation for him to speak.

"All right," he relented, after another drawn-out pause. "Thursday. We'll . . . take it from there."

She released her held breath. And now to part ways before she managed another blunder that might shatter this fragile interlude. Or the better option, if she could just keep her mouth under control . . . "I guess I could use some back-up for a trip to sickbay, if the offer's still open? You know the Doctor, safety in numbers . . ." Maybe she was pushing her luck a bit too far.

But then, after another protracted, painful pause, he visibly relaxed and gestured to the exit. "After you."


	3. Improvements

**Chapter Three - Improvements**

When B'Elanna entered the shuttle bay and appraised the _Delta Flyer_, it was like looking at the vessel with new eyes. Despite being practically-minded, _Voyager_'s chief engineer wasn't blind to aesthetics. The sleek prototype really was a sight to behold, especially in contrast to the boxy, class-2 shuttle berthed beside it. And, the _Flyer _was even more beautiful underneath its tetraburnium hull. Too out of sorts to pay much attention during the construction phase, B'Elanna had poured over the schematics before breakfast and taken in the sheer genius of both the structural design and the systems buried beneath the novel flight controls. The conclusion she had come to was that it really was a masterpiece.

Running a hand over the ship's name, embossed in a bold, italic script beneath the port-side cockpit window, she rued that her input in the new shuttle's construction had been so limited and lacklustre. Hopefully, that was about to change, though how receptive the _Flyer_'s chief designer would be to her suggestions at this stage was anybody's guess. She couldn't blame him if he didn't want to know.

Evidently, he was already inside the craft. She could hear the clatter of tools coming from the aft compartment, followed by a loudly uttered expletive. She rounded the port warp nacelle and peered in through the open hatch.

Tom was dressed in the same one-piece grey overalls that he favoured when working on his 20th-century car in the holodeck. Lights glowed where panels had been removed from the bulkheads to expose isolinear circuitry and power conduits.

He looked up as he detected her presence and smiled tightly. "Hey."

"Are you OK?" she asked, concerned at the way he was cradling his left hand in his right.

"Just jammed my thumb in a panel hinge," he explained, exposing the injured digit for her to view the damage.

"Ouch!"

"Yeah."

She stepped through the hatch, dumped the tool case she'd borrowed from engineering on the floor, and pulled an emergency medkit off the starboard bulkhead, opening it and locating the dermal regenerator. About to administer the treatment herself, she had a change of heart. The Doctor had been generous when he'd compared her medical skills to those of a first-year nursing student. Practice didn't always make perfect.

"Here," she said, passing the device to Tom. She watched as he ran it over the affected extremity with a trained hand, the redness around his thumbnail dissipating beneath the regenerator's invisible beam.

Unpleasant memories intruded. No doubt the significance wasn't lost on him either as he caught her staring, but his expression was unreadable. Placing the device back in the kit, he remounted it on the bulkhead before looking at her expectantly.

"So," she said, awkwardly, "do you need any help?"

He nodded. "Sure. Grab a hyperspanner."

"I heard Vorik and Seven fixed the structural integrity issue with their usual level of efficiency."

Tom confirmed with a nod and a half-smile. "And Chapman and Ashmore repaired the transporter control circuitry. I'm nearly done tweaking these relays, and then I'll be ready to move on to something else."

"I have a few ideas for improvements," B'Elanna told him, adding quickly, "but if there's something you wanted to prioritise . . . ?" There was a tenuous line between showing enthusiasm and overstepping her bounds, and she was anxious not to cross it. Not today. She'd spent every free minute yesterday contemplating her recent actions and priming herself to be composed and forthcoming.

"Well, the thruster controls could be a lot more responsive. And the impulse engines get through deuterium like it's going out of fashion. Still within the limits of what Starfleet would deem acceptable for a regular shuttle, but," a trace of a smile formed on his lips, "the _Flyer_'s no regular shuttle." The smile fully formed. He patted the bulkhead fondly.

B'Elanna nodded. "All right. So, which do you want to work on first?"

Tom paused to consider, still seeming a little surprised at her appearance and maybe the degree of interest she was expressing. "Let's start with the thruster controls. They're easier to access."

B'Elanna gathered the appropriate tools and diagnostic equipment. They moved forward to the cockpit, and Tom removed access panels from the floor behind the ops station, exposing the requisite control circuits.

"So," he queried with evident curiosity. "What sort of improvements were you thinking of? Are you saying there are flaws in my design?"

"Well, firstly, we could install an additional bank of plasmadyne relays," said B'Elanna as she disconnected a cluster of power cells that was blocking her view. "Not that I'm criticising, and I know it'll mean having to re-assemble the phase inducers, but it'll be worth it for the extra quantum efficiency." She took the PADD she'd been working on in her quarters and passed it to him.

"Hmm," Tom said, squinting as he looked over her calculations. "You're probably right."

B'Elanna raised an eyebrow. "I know I'm right," she said bluntly, before clamping her mouth shut and hoping desperately that he hadn't taken offence. His welcome response was to break out in a wide grin. She unclenched her jaw to smile back at him.

"Then let's put that on the list," he said cheerily, looking through the other suggestions she'd drafted on the PADD. He gave an encouraging nod from time to time as he absorbed the data, his brow knitted in concentration, the corners of his mouth curling upwards intermittently.

"Of course, then we may need to think about installing secondary phase inverters," B'Elanna explained.

Tom looked up at her, practically beaming now. "This is great," he said, waving the PADD in front of him. "How about you talk me through in more detail later?"

"Sure," she said, blinking away the inexplicable moisture that was threatening to cloud her vision. _What the hell?_

She stowed the PADD in the tool case then hung back, deciding it might be best to let Tom take the lead with the thruster adjustments, passing equipment and offering her advice when he asked for it.

"Seven was right about using tetraburnium alloy for the hull," B'Elanna admitted, as, an hour later, they finished the task at hand and replaced the floor panels. "I don't know what I was thinking when I came up with titanium." She stared at a point on the bulkhead as if it might yield the answer. "There was no way that was ever going to work, not even with the unimatrix shielding." Reaching out, she grasped Tom's forearm. "But don't you ever tell her I said that," she warned.

He turned to her and settled his other hand on top of hers. "I wouldn't dare."

"It's really quite something." Her gaze trailed around the _Flyer_'s interior for what felt like the thousandth time in an hour.

"Even the flight controls?"

"They're very . . . you," she stated, diplomatically. In fact, she was growing fond of the dials, knobs and levers that covered the instrument panel at the conn. But, it wouldn't do to appear _too_ enthused with them, no matter how much making up she had to do. "I can't wait to see how she handles when we've made all the modifications."

"I'll ask the Captain if we can schedule some time to run a few more test flights and really put this baby through her paces," Tom said animatedly. "We still need to break in the warp drive as it is."

"And, if you want to check if the structural integrity issue is really solved, we should make another atmospheric entry. Another gas giant, or . . . I wonder how she'd handle underwater?"

He smiled and stared affectionately at the helm controls. "With the current specs, not well. But, with a few reinforcements . . ."

"Maybe we'll leave that idea for now," B'Elanna interjected, before he got too carried away. She'd forgotten about his love of the ocean. How could she have forgotten that? And what else had she forgotten? - How much she liked him holding her hand for one thing, sappy as that was. "I'm glad we're finally doing this, working on this project together."

He turned that look away from the dials and levers and onto her and said, "Me too."

They worked on, talking as they did so, about the _Flyer_, _Voyager_ and their crewmates, both making the occasional, tentative foray onto emotive ground but neither committing to any direct onslaught.

When lunchtime came, they stopped for half an hour, grabbing something to eat in the mess hall – the _something_ being Neelix's interpretation of corned beef hash, which comprised a copious helping of mashed leola root. Nevertheless, it tasted better than the usual leola root concoctions, and B'Elanna graciously thanked the chef for his efforts, taking care not to be too encouraging towards future experiments.

It was late in the afternoon, back in the cockpit of the _Flyer_, when she summoned the courage to bring up a subject that had been playing on her mind. They'd come to a lull in conversation, having brainstormed a whole series of further modifications, deciding that some of them would have to wait until a second _Flyer_-type shuttle could be constructed. Tom had visions of creating a whole fleet if time, resources, and the Captain, would allow it.

"You know," B'Elanna said, hesitantly, "all these years I've tried to deny my Klingon heritage, but it's my human side that's let me down this time."

Tom turned his head from the helm console and looked at her blankly. "How so?"

"If I were fully Klingon, I wouldn't have behaved as I have." She laughed mirthlessly. "Klingons don't get _depressed_." The final word was spat out like an obscenity.

Tom frowned, sitting back in the pilot's seat and swivelling to face her. "I don't believe that for a minute. At the most basic level, Klingon and human brain chemistry is very similar."

She knew that, of course. If Klingon and human brains were that different, then the two races would be unable to interbreed, and she wouldn't exist.

He continued, "It's just that Klingons won't admit to getting depressed. To Klingons _any_ illness is seen as a sign of weakness. You know that."

She downed tools and leaned back against the port-side instrument panel as he related to her, "No doctors have ever even attempted to study psychiatric illness in Klingons. Society just wouldn't allow it. Think about it, what Klingon is going to volunteer for a case study? But as for not occurring . . ." He shook his head slowly. "On Qo'noS they'd just label it differently - as brain injury or neurological disease, or . . . I don't know."

He sat forward now, speaking more fluidly. "It's like human society until a few hundred years ago. Depression was an illness that people didn't want to acknowledge, an illness with a stigma attached to it. I guess, unfortunately, a little of that way of thinking has endured. But it shouldn't have. Depression is just as real as a broken leg . . . or the Tarkalean flu. It's not a failure of your human side or otherwise."

His words made some sense, but her hackles were raised. "How do you know all this?" she demanded, standing up straighter, crossing her arms across her chest before she knew she was doing it. "Have you been talking about me with the Doctor?"

"No," he assured her, a slight hardness edging into his voice, his palms raised towards her. "I made a point of looking up a few things up in the medical database and the historical library files."

"Oh," she said, eyes flicking to the floor. "Sorry." She had to stop jumping to conclusions.

"I wanted to try to understand," he explained. "I wanted to find out how best to help you. I do know what it's like to lose people you care about . . . not under the same circumstances, but . . ." He shrugged his shoulders as his words trailed off, seeming to be at a loss now for what to say, after her paranoid interruption.

"_Sickbay to Lieutenant Torres," _chirped the Doctor's voice through B'Elanna's combadge.

She cursed. "What time is it?"

Tom glanced at the chronometer in the instrument panel. "1745," he told her, with a sympathetic grimace.

B'Elanna smacked her combadge. "Torres here."

"_Forgetting something, Lieutenant?"_

Biting her tongue before she yet again said something out of turn, she breathed then answered, "I'll be right there, Doctor. Just give me a few minutes."

She turned to Tom and rolled her eyes. "I have to go, but I'll be back as soon as I can."

"Have fun," he teased. She flashed him a mock scowl and ascended the ramp to exit the cockpit. Reaching the top, she turned back around.

"Anyhow, I don't think we can fix everything in a day, can we?" she said.

He looked up at her, fixed those brilliant blue eyes on hers and remarked solemnly and sincerely, "We'll take as long as we need."


	4. Maintenance

**Chapter Four - Maintenance**

In over four years on the starship, B'Elanna had yet to understand why _Voyager_, a state of the art, _Intrepid_-class vessel, had been designed with a sickbay that failed to provide any semblance of confidentiality for its patients. Admittedly, it was rare that a patient needed to undress for a procedure, but, even in the partitioned-off section that housed the Doctor's office, there was no soundproofing. Anyone and everyone could walk in and interrupt a private consultation.

Billy Telfer sat on one of the biobeds, haranguing the Doctor about stomach pains he was experiencing. The EMH seemed relieved to see B'Elanna walk in and beckoned for her to go and wait in the office. She sat in there for a good five minutes, unable to avoid hearing through the glass the soothing platitudes that the EMH uttered to the anxious young man.

"And how are we today, Lieutenant?" asked the hologram as he breezed into the office cubicle. Telfer had been ordered to his quarters with an antacid, an instruction he'd followed reluctantly, leaving sickbay at a snail's pace.

"Fine," B'Elanna stated, checking to make sure that Telfer had finally checked out. She had no intention of engaging in a detailed discussion about her medical status whilst another patient was within earshot. Only Tom, the Doctor, Janeway and Chakotay knew the truth about her illness, and in varying degrees of detail. She intended to keep it that way.

The Doctor reached into an equipment case and pulled out a hypospray. B'Elanna tipped her head to the side so that he could press it to her neck, the drug delivered through her skin with a familiar hiss. She sprang to her feet. The Doctor pulled up a chair and sat down. Not a good sign.

"Any headaches or dizziness?" he probed.

"No," she asserted. "Thank you, Doctor." She shifted towards the exit, but he persisted, taking a PADD off the desk and entering notes as he spoke.

"Are you sleeping well?"

She sighed, stopping in her tracks. "Yes, fine."

"Any nausea?"

"No."

"And you're eating well?"

"As well as I can on replicator rations and Neelix's cooking."

"Mmm hmm," the Doctor intoned. B'Elanna shifted her weight onto her front foot, eager for this consultation to end. He looked up from the PADD and gestured to the chair she'd just vacated.

"You may as well sit down, Lieutenant. This will take a few minutes."

Crossing her arms across her chest, B'Elanna huffed quietly and sat back down. The last couple of days she'd managed to get away with a cursory show of her face, so she should have expected a more thorough evaluation sooner rather than later.

"Constipation?" the Doctor enquired.

"No! If I were still having any problems, I'd tell you," she insisted, giving him her most intimidating yet controlled glare. The Doctor was completely unfazed as he continued to take notes. Quite why he needed to, when his auditory processors could simple convert their discussion into text, was beyond her. Just another of his irksome traits.

"I don't think I need to ask you if you're feeling irritable," he remarked sardonically. "Any trouble concentrating on your work?"

"None. How much longer do I need this treatment?" B'Elanna leaned forwards over the desk. "It's been three weeks. How much longer do I have to keep checking in with you every day?"

At least she'd managed to persuade him to knock her required visits to sickbay down to _one_ a day. Now if she could just convince him to discharge her altogether . . .

"Until I'm satisfied you're stable," the Doctor replied, in that infuriatingly condescending tone of his, "and then for a few weeks longer."

"I feel fine now, Doctor. Really." _Voyager _was a small ship. People were starting to wonder about her frequent visits to sickbay, she was sure of it. And, she felt so much better. No longer did she feel the urge to seek danger on the holodeck. There was no need. The numbness had gone.

For the briefest of moments the notion occurred to her that she could deactivate the hologram and make some selective alterations to his program. She dismissed it out of hand. She was sure she could get away with it, at least for a time. It had been done before, though that had been for the Doctor's own good. But to tamper with his program for her own ends - that was something old B'Elanna would do. New, well-balanced B'Elanna would have to grin and bear his advice.

"Well, you certainly seem more like your usual self," he said, tartly, "but your neurographic scans show that your neurotransmitter levels are still a little off, though I am lacking solid data by which to make a comparison. There is no information available as to the baseline levels in a human-Klingon hybrid so I'm extrapolating from readings I took during your previous physical exams. As I've mentioned before, tailoring the treatment to your physiology has been somewhat of an experiment. In fact, I was thinking of writing a paper on it: Human-Klingon pharmacological-"

She cut him off with a fist thumped onto the desk. "But you can cure me, right? Permanently?" When all was said and done, that was all she really cared to know.

The vertical lines between the Doctor's eyebrows deepened into furrows. "Well," his mouth twitched, "I am more than capable of managing your condition - as you already know from the progress you've made so far. Not that I'm suggesting you haven't put in some work yourself to-" He halted abruptly. Changing his tone from boastful to compassionate, he continued more slowly. "I can't promise that you won't experience a recurrence of the condition in the future. There's no vaccine. The brain is an incredibly complex organ, and statistically, having suffered from one episode makes it more likely that you'll have a recurrence. I don't mean to be pessimistic, but it would be remiss of me if I didn't make you aware of the possibility. But, you know the danger signs now, if you'll pardon the expression. There are steps we can take to help prevent a relapse . . ."

She slumped backwards, taking in the prognosis. Damn it. No permanent cure? Yet he'd been able to cure Tom and the Captain from a case of hyper-evolution. It didn't make sense. Maybe she shouldn't be so hasty in wanting to discontinue her treatment. Hell, she'd happily stay on the meds indefinitely rather than risk another episode. It wasn't as if they were causing her any adverse effects, although the regular hyposprays were a persistent reminder of what had befallen her. And, the regular doses of the Doctor weren't helping her build up a tolerance to him.

The Doctor was still talking. She brought her focus back to him. ". . . and I think some changes might be in order."

"What sort of changes?"

"Lifestyle changes."

She snorted. "Lifestyle changes? On _Voyager_? What am I going to do, get a new job?"

"There are always changes one can make to improve one's quality of-"

"Just tell me what you recommend, Doctor," she snapped.

"You could take up a hobby. Learn about something new. I'd be more than happy to introduce you to opera, or . . ." He changed tack, processing her bemused expression. "Or perhaps something less refined. You might like to consider meditation. I'm sure Mr. Tuvok could give you some pointers."

B'Elanna smiled disdainfully. As if _that_ was going to happen. She resigned herself to the discourse, letting the hologram ramble on. A few minutes rest wouldn't go amiss, having been on her feet all day. Lifestyle changes, indeed. Just beginning to tune out she heard:

"You could change your hairstyle or-"

"My hairstyle?" she scoffed, sitting up straighter.

"It's the little things, Lieutenant, that can make a big difference. How about new quarters?"

"New _quarters_? Why?"

The look he gave her implied that it should be blatantly obvious. "A change of scene. Studies have shown-"

"But all the junior officers quarters look the same."

"That's not true," he asserted, beginning to gesticulate. "For example, on the starboard side of the ship, the star trails pass from left to right, whereas on the port side, they move from right to left."

She looked at him squarely, incredulous. When the hell did she sit in her quarters gazing out at star trails?

The Doctor continued, "Furthermore, I've been doing some research. Did you know, the quarters on deck four have arctic grey carpet? Deck eight has slate grey, not to mention the differing configurations of the bathrooms. And, on deck nine, for example, the walls are a shade or two darker than on the other decks, and if you changed quarters, you'd have new neighbours – different people to pass in the corridors. As I say, Lieutenant, it's the little things."

As superficially silly as the idea was, she had to admit that there might be some merit in it. Her quarters on deck four had been the scene of some unpleasantness in recent months, having become more of a first-aid station than a place to relax or entertain.

"And, I think it might be good for you to talk over some of your past experiences in the Maquis with those who were there at the time. Commander Chakotay for example."

Given that such a discussion was already on the cards, she nodded her assent without protest.

"Have you considered telling some of your friends about your condition? I'm not suggesting you broadcast it to the whole ship, but explaining the situation to one or two close friends might help you feel less isolated."

Considered it, she had - if only to dispel the puzzled glances that Harry kept giving her every time he asked how she was getting over her accident, and she told him she was still checking in daily with the Doctor. But more people knowing? It was nobody else's business . . . yet it might make her life easier if a few, select people knew the truth.

"I'll think about it," she said, only to be met with a dubious look. "I will, really," she repeated, adamantly, surprising herself by meaning it. "I'll think about everything you've mentioned."

The Doctor beamed, suitably convinced. "Very well." With a final glance at the notes he'd been taking, he placed the PADD back on the desk and stood up, signalling that the appointment was at an end. "And B'Elanna," he said softly as she headed out the door, "remember, you don't have to wait a whole week before you come back to see me. If you ever feel the need to talk in the meantime . . . well, you know where I am."

She sighed even as she offered him a gracious smile. Know where he was? She most certainly did.


	5. Breaking the Surface

**Chapter Five - Breaking the Surface**

Creatures from the Jurassic Period would not have looked out of place here. In fact, she was surprised Tom hadn't thought to include some. Pterodactyls flying overhead. Or perhaps some plesiosaurs gliding through the water.

B'Elanna floated on her back, a good thirty metres out from where the surf met the clean, crisp sand of the beach. Tom had wisely chosen Hawaii for this afternoon of relaxation. Unfortunately, Samoa might be yet another holodeck program that she was destined to never revisit, tainted now as it was. Sand was sand, but the dramatic backdrop of Kauai was unmistakable, and she could never confuse the two programs. If she hadn't taken a shuttle trip over the real island one weekend during her short-lived stint at the Academy, she'd have thought Tom had taken liberties with the holoprogram's parameters – again. It had a primeval aura about it. Swimming off the real Honopu beach back on Earth was inadvisable due to the perilous currents, but of course on the holodeck the safeties had compensated, and the water flowed gently. Anyhow, the holographic water would dematerialise if the life signs detectors picked up any problem.

Even before entering the water, she'd felt buoyant. Despite the failure of the latest scheme to get _Voyager _home fast and, prior to that, nearly losing Tom on an away mission, everything seemed brighter. Clearer. The scattered pieces of a broken whole were slotting back together.

After allowing the wash of the tide to move her closer inshore, she lowered a foot to gauge the depth. Contact. The water was still up to her shoulders, but she could stand. She took in the scene: sunshine that wouldn't burn her; water that couldn't drown her; and a man that wasn't going to give up on her, no matter how much she screwed things up.

Harry, the Delaney sisters and Mariah Henley had joined the two of them for a couple of hours of swimming, surfing and sunbathing. At the moment, only B'Elanna and Tom were in the water, the others taking refreshments on the shore. Harry seemed to be enjoying the attention of two of the three women, and B'Elanna was pleased to see him looking so at ease. He'd been deeply shaken by the prospect that his miscalculations with the quantum slipstream's phase variance could have caused _Voyager_ to be destroyed and all on board to be killed. Over a game of durotta, B'Elanna had offered reassurance and taken the opportunity to confide in him the reality of her own recent problems. Harry had promised her that she had his full support - that anything he could do to help, she only had to ask.

Encouraged by Harry's acceptance, she'd spoken with Neelix. The Talaxian had fussed again and apologised profusely that he'd failed in his job as morale officer. Once more, B'Elanna had ended up doing far more consoling than being consoled, but that suited her just fine, and it felt as if a weight had been lifted from her.

She'd spent a cathartic evening with Chakotay reminiscing about their lost friends, sharing thoughts and memories that only another who had experienced the same events could truly understand. The Doctor's advice had been sound, not that she was going to make a point of telling him so - especially as she now only had to check in with him once a week.

Tom swam leisurely in her direction, having racked up a series of lengths between two marker buoys, whilst she'd been content to just float and unwind for a while. Making a quick estimate of his current distance, factoring in his speed and the drift of the tide, she inhaled deeply, dived under the water and powered on a convergent course. When she broke the surface, he was there, right beside her.

"So, you do remember how to swim," he gasped.

"I just didn't want to make you look slow," she countered, her own breathing rate barely elevated by the exertion. That third lung did come in handy at times. The water was a little deeper here, not so deep that Tom couldn't stand, but not shallow enough for her. She laid her hands on his shoulders to assist in keeping her head above the surface.

They rested there for a few moments, whilst he recovered, bobbing up and down with the steady rhythm of the incoming waves, in easy silence. They'd done a lot of talking lately. In one exhausting, emotional night, after an inadvisable but facilitative glass of wine, she'd recounted every last harrowing, previously unspoken detail of her holodeck misadventures to him. The groundwork already laid, he was better prepared to hear it than he'd been during her earlier attempt at full disclosure. They'd come to the mutual agreement that both had made mistakes, but that he shouldn't castigate himself for not realising what she'd been going through and that she'd not been fully culpable for the secrets and the lies.

But, there was one thing left unsaid. A sentiment she should have expressed long before now. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"Being there for me. Being so patient with me. Everything."

"You'd have done the same for me."

She smiled. "Yeah, but maybe with a little less patience."

"Maybe." He studied her intensely, and she held his gaze. "Just promise me one thing."

"What's that?"

"No more secrets?"

This time the alarm bells stayed silent. She nodded. "No more secrets." Hopefully, it was a promise she could keep.

He tipped his head in the direction of the beach. "Race you to shore?"

A challenge she couldn't refuse. She grinned. "You're on."

* * *

Tom lounged on the sand, cool drink in hand, back resting on a well-placed rock. Surfing had been ditched in favour of volleyball, at Harry's insistence. Tom watched with amusement as B'Elanna and Henley won a second set, yet again defeating a dejected-looking Harry and his playing partner, Jenny Delaney. If Harry had stayed focused instead of looking off the court every few seconds, then maybe his team would have been able to win at least a point. Then again, B'Elanna was playing particularly aggressively today, and, even if Harry had brought his best game, there was a distinct possibility that he and Jenny would not have stood a chance.

Watching B'Elanna today, sociable and competitive, listening to the friendly banter she was throwing in Harry's direction, Tom realised he'd been wrong when he'd compared depression to a broken leg or the Tarkalean flu – or not wrong per se, but he'd made an extreme, though well-intended, oversimplification. Depression wasn't just another illness. It was an insidious blight that had, for a time, changed the very nature of who B'Elanna was. It had stolen her away from him, and, now that he had her back, he was determined to do everything in his power to keep her well.

Obviously noticing that the game wasn't holding much entertainment for the others, B'Elanna graciously tossed the ball to Megan, who sat sipping a cocktail on the sidelines, and indicated that the recipient of Harry's unrequited longing should take her place in the next game.

"Was that just for fun? Or were you playing for replicator rations?" Tom quipped as B'Elanna thumped down beside him. She seized the glass from his hand and thirstily drained the rest of his soda.

"I don't think we'll have to endure Neelix's cooking for the next week," she said, with a grin. "Harry never learns."

"You're right there," Tom agreed. His friend might be a whole lot worldlier than when he'd first set foot on _Voyager_, but there were some things that he had still to realise - that pining after the wrong twin was going to get him nowhere, for a start.

Tom considered. He should probably feel a _little_ guilty that Harry and Jenny would have to feast on the fruits of the galley, whilst he and B'Elanna enjoyed their rations. But, if it meant that he and B'Elanna could eat alone, in the privacy of either his or her quarters, Tom wasn't going to feel too bad about it.

"So, my replicator or yours?" he asked, and, before B'Elanna could reply, he added, "And speaking of which, how do you like your new quarters?" The relocation had been agreed upon that morning, but it had slipped his mind to ask her about it until now.

She rolled her eyes. "They're really not all that different to the old ones," she grumbled, "Though at least I've got away from that chronically-malfunctioning sonic shower."

"And where exactly did you end up?"

"Deck nine, section twelve."

"Deck nine? That's five decks below me." Any further down and she'd have been billeted in engineering itself. Still, it was only a turbolift away.

"I had to swap with Mulcahey," she explained. "Nobody else was keen to transfer, and I wasn't going to pull rank and have Chakotay move someone who was unwilling."

Tom smirked. "Well, I sure hope I don't forget you've moved and pay Mulcahey a visit in the middle of the night." It had been quite a while since he'd risked making any such unannounced midnight appearances, but he decided it was time to give the idea some air.

B'Elanna smacked him on his bare shoulder, her hand lingering after the fact. "Actually, I was hoping you might stop by later and . . . help me unpack." The definite sparkle in her eyes was tempered slightly by the halting cadence of her words.

"Unpack?" he queried with another smirk, daring to believe that they were both transmitting on the same wavelength, knowing that she hadn't had many belongings to transfer. She nodded, fighting, it seemed, to suppress a smile.

"Later?"

She narrowed her eyes in a parody of concentration. "Or now."

He didn't miss a beat. "I hope you'll be providing dinner."

"Sure, if you're bringing dessert." The sparkle ignited, unmistakeably, to a mischievous gleam.

"Then, it would be my pleasure," he said, transfixed as the gleam became wildfire and she leaned in close to whisper a proposition in his ear that had him scrambling to his feet and pulling her up onto hers in a flash. He called for the exit, unsure which he found more alluring: the wild promise in her eyes, or the flirtatious lilt of her voice.

Thankfully, now, he could enjoy them both.


End file.
